


Action: roller’s choice Body Part: between legs

by DragonsInkwell (Lafrenze), TheHuggamugCafe



Series: Roll The Sex Dice [4]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Breathplay, Character Study, Domesticity, Dubious Morality, F/M, Fun times in the shadows, Glove Kink, I feel like Alastor is a tag warning all on his own, Insanity, Jealousy, Leather Kink, Light Horror, Manipulation, Masochism, Near-Death Experience, Orgasm, Orgasm Control, Possessive Behaviour, Sadism, Self-Doubt, Set during the 1920s, Smut, Smut under moonlight, Stockholm Syndrome, Talk of murder, Vaginal Fingering, husband/wife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:40:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23291095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafrenze/pseuds/DragonsInkwell, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHuggamugCafe/pseuds/TheHuggamugCafe
Summary: The creak of the door is what signals his arrival.He’s home.That’s what you think as you finish drying your hair with a towel, tossing it into the wicker laundry basket; the fluffy v-shaped collar of the simple bathrobe is slightly damp, wet as a result of your shower.You are relieved that he’s returned; the home feels less empty, less cold, when Alistair returns.But the stench of warm copper assaults your nose as you soon find yourself pressed to the kitchen counter, the hard surface digging into your lower backside. You feel warm leather hold your hands hostage above your head; the other finds the flimsy knot of the robe, untying it, exposing yourself to him.His face is smearedred;crimsonstains his leather clad hands.Your husband is wound up tonight—and suddenly, you’re reminded of a simple truth.A hunter will always corner his prey.And the worst part of it all?You don’t care. You still love him.
Relationships: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Reader
Series: Roll The Sex Dice [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1473191
Comments: 17
Kudos: 153





	Action: roller’s choice Body Part: between legs

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Your Room, You Suppose](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22479973) by [CalsLaundry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalsLaundry/pseuds/CalsLaundry). 



> _Peeks her head in, looks left and right, then tip-toes inside._
> 
> Um… Good day. For those of you who are familiar with my writing: I am _not_ dead. I was on a hiatus of sorts for the past three months. I wrote here and there, but nothing that I felt was worthwhile. All of what I teased was on a Discord server I love to bits.
> 
> Suffice it to say: I doubt my ability as a writer. A lot. There were times when I considered taking a longer break from writing; the drive just wasn’t there. The inspiration wasn’t there; if my inspiration for the past three months was a well, it was almost dried up. 
> 
> But, thankfully, I’m wading my way out of this writing slump, slowly but surely. I cannot safely guarantee how often I’ll be able to post, but I will post as often as I can to make up for lost time. I ask and appreciate your patience in the meantime.
> 
> Without further ado, please sit back and enjoy some human!Alastor. I do _not_ own his human name; I happened to see it on the work of another, and I thought it fit him perfectly. _All_ of the credit, and none of the blame, for his human name goes to BambinaMio, author of The Man Who Put New Orleans To Rest. 
> 
> Real talk: this is dark, _dark_ , **dark**. Please be sure to read the tags. If any, and I do mean _any_ , of the tags upsets you, no matter how mildly, then do not read any further than this.

Five fingers. A palm. The feeling of leather.

That is the sensation that is cupping the obscene flower blooming between your legs. The hard surface of the counter top is digging into your lower back; you feel its rough edge pressing into your skin through the cotton bathrobe you’re wearing.

Your hands are held above you, knuckles knocking against the wooden cabinets, held in place by a hand clad in black leather. The faint clink and clatter of glasses and dishes reaches your ears, but the sounds—and the sensation of wood harshly rubbing against your knuckles—are ignored. The world can end for all you care.

All that you care about is the feeling of leather fingers thrusting, mercilessly exploring your wet insides. The rough scissoring motion is painful, but rather than smother your arousal out, it merely fuels the fire that’s lapping at the shores of your dripping womanhood.

The white liquid that is gathering in a puddle, dripping down your legs is more than evident—and _fuck_ , the grin curling your husband’s lips is stretching, pulling apart wider. Perfect white teeth are bared to your flushed, sweating visage as he breathes a laugh in your face.

“Excited, darlin’?” Alistair’s voice drawls, cooing sadistically as a puff of hot air hits the warm, shivering flesh of your neck. You can do nothing except to exhale sharply—the breath dies on your tongue, the exhale cutting off short as your lobe is nipped on the blunt edge of your spouse’s teeth.

You don’t— _can’t_ —reply to his question, but your body sings a delightful tale, betraying you as your legs shiver. They’re already spread as an open invitation for his leather clad fingers, for his gloved palm to play with your warm and wet folds.

“A-Alistair—”

“Isn’t this a _wonderful_ sight?” he hisses, two leathery fingers scissoring your insides. “My, my! You’re _shivering_ , dear. Much like that woman who entertained me earlier on this eve, actually! Ah, but tremors possessed her body for a very different reason than you’re trembling right now! Ah-ha-ha-ha!”

He laughs. It sounds cheerful, delighted, and he gleefully displays a hint of his pearly whites; you purse your lips, brows pinching the slant of your narrow eyes. He may be amused, but you aren’t. The irritated hum tickling the back of your throat tells you—and him—as much. The mere thought of him being around another woman is enough to heat your blood, leaving a taste that reminds you of curdled milk on your tongue. It’s absurd to think on your part—for you know that he’ll never be with another person, another woman, in the ways he’s been with you.

“My, is that _jealousy_ I see, dear?”

The kiss of heat is familiar as he breathes a laugh in your expression, narrow eyes and flushed cheeks and pursed lips. All of it. The cackle wafts over your face, briefly cooling the warmth that’s tickling your cheeks, the warmth that’s crawling up your neck to shamelessly shade your face with a hue of embarrassment and arousal. It’s a counter to the green fire spewing from your glaring eyes, but it is not _him_ you’re angry at, no. It’s the seed of doubt that he’s planted in your head. You question if you’re good enough for him. He is the furthest example of a saint that exists, but compared to him…

_Am I good enough?_

_Am I worthy of him?_

_Do I deserve him?_

_Have I earned the right to call myself his wife?_

Your insides clench around Alistair’s gloved hand. Your thighs are practically straddling the hand that’s between them, shamelessly rutting against his leather clad palm and fingers. The heat that is building up inside you threatens to overwhelm you, to carry you off into the heavens to be with the angels, however briefly. It is the only true slice of paradise your husband will grant you permission to see. For a moment and only a moment, your eyes roll back in your head and you lean back. The dull _thunk_ as the back of your skull hits the cupboard, gently, is ignored by you and the grinning brunet in front of you.

“I… I… Ah… Haah… Al-Alistair!”

“Do you trust me, _mon amour_?” He cackles into your sweating, flushed visage; the hit of warm breath wafts over your skin, blessing it with a fresh kiss of heat. Moisture pricks at the corner of your vision. Your perception becomes blurry and there’s a ringing in your ears; your brain is foggy with lust; your body is trembling, teetering on the edge of pure bliss.

“How foolish of you…” He trails off too slowly, too suddenly for your liking. You watch, quietly petrified, as his free hand releases yours. They hit the counter top, knuckles striking the edge of the sink and the granite surface you’ve become such terribly great acquaintances with. Your arms hang, limp as noodles, but though your fingers itch with the temptation, you don’t dare to touch your husband. Rather, your fingers find that the edge of the counter top you’re sitting on is a good thing to grasp, to hold for leverage.

You’re still watching—watching him, watching to see what he’ll do next. You don’t have to wait long. Cool leather wraps around your throat; five fingers and a single palm touches your skin, gently. “You trust the man before you, knowing full well how many lives I have taken? The very hands I used to strangle that woman? That uncouth woman who sneered at you, looked down at you as though you were dirt? That’s the same hand that I am using now to please you. And…”

He pauses, lips curling to form a smile that you’ve never seen from him before. Slowly, oh so slowly, he applies pressure. The touch and the embrace of a gloved hand closing in over your throat is so light, so tender, and so brief that you shouldn’t have been able to feel it—but you do feel it, and that terrifies you. The way the leather teasingly dances over your perspiring flesh, how it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand tall and at attention, frightened.

“The hand that once held a knife? The hand that was used to slash open that woman’s husband’s throat? The hand that gutted him like the ill-mannered, inebriated swine he was? Right now… That’s the hand I have wrapped around your alluring neck. Birds of a feather, my dear! I didn’t like him promising to touch you, to do _barbaric_ things to this beautiful body of yours. Only _I_ am allowed to touch you. Only _I_ am allowed to see you in this state. No one else. Why, you’re _mine_ after all!”

You won’t lie. You feel touched, flattered even, for a few and short-lived moments that make you think that maybe, just maybe… Your husband feels _something_ for you in his blackened heart and in his conscious, which amounts to nothing more than a bloodied stump of a moral code.

Your mind can’t help but paint a picture of a child, a rambunctious boy, not wanting to share his favourite toy with other kids. As much as you care for Alistair, he is very much like a greedy chap—for only he would see the other children as being unworthy to touch, to look at his beloved plaything.

“How amusing… You’re being pleasured by the hands that took two lives this evening! Isn’t it ironic, darling? That I am giving you euphoria by these hands? These hands that have known the touch of blood, the feeling of flesh as life leaves the body? These hands that are now helping me plant a seed of terror in that lovely head of yours?”

He leans in closer. His nose is almost touching yours; a few inches is all that separates his lips from brushing over your trembling mouth. The corner of his lips twitch, still baring his teeth in a sneer as he stares at you, examines you like he’s a mad scientist, and you’re a newly discovered species he wishes to dissect. “Knowing _all of this_ … Tell me… Do you still trust me, _ma biche_?”

_Yes!_

Your mind screams that single word. That single word that sings in your blood, coursing through your veins. You know it’s foolish. You know it’s pure insanity, but you do trust him with all that you have. You trust him, Alistair McCarthy. A part of you coolly legitimizes your logic—he is your _husband_. Why would you _not_ trust him?

**You are married to a murderer.**

_I know,_ a voice whispers, replying to the malevolent sting of conscious. This is you. Rather, the “you” who pretends that all is well and normal. The “you” who pretends that your husband is a normal, loving man; the “you” who plays make believe, knowing full well that you’re living a lie.

 **You’re being pleasured by a serial killer; you’re letting him** **touch you** **with hands that have knowingly,** **willingly** **, taken lives.**

 _I am, I am, I am. I know, I know, I know,_ the soft voice murmurs, countering the sobering hit of conscious lurking deep, deep inside you.

**And you’re honestly okay with that?**

The dark whisper fills your mind, hissing one stone-cold truth after another—and you can do nothing but swallow them like the bittersweet pills that they are, filling you with the hedonistic medicine they contain.

“I… I—”

A sudden, slightly more forceful press of leather against your throat silences you. Instinctively, you take in a breath, but it freezes in the midst of being inhaled into your lungs. You’re afraid. You’re scared. You fear for your life. You will gladly call yourself a fool if you aren’t even slightly intimidated, horrified at the potential chance of your life ending here tonight, in the dimly lit darkness of your kitchen, and at the hands of your spouse.

But… But…

The fire. The lust. The edge of pleasure you’re standing on. You want it. You need it. You _want_ him. You _need_ him. He is the air you breathe; he is the water you drink; he is the counter you’re sitting on. He is the moonlight casting its cold glare on your skin, in your eyes. He is the icy whisper of steel that dances over your skin when your husband is in the mood to play, like an eager child who’s just eyed their most precious novelty.

“…I… You…”

You can just barely get the words out, despite your best efforts. You try to suck in air, swallowing it in thick, heavy gulps like you’ve been deprived of your lungs. And considering your current state, you may as well be without them.

“Hm? What was that? I couldn’t hear you. Speak up, darlin’.”

You steady yourself, steeling your nerves as you look him in the eyes. It’s now or never.

_I have to tell him **that** before I die… He **must** know that I… That I…! Just one more time—_

“I love you, Alistair.”

Sincerity laces your voice; a hue of honesty paints your hushed words. Silence is your answer. You swallow; the gulp is thick. It sticks to your twitching esophagus, slithering down your airway until it settles into your stomach, where it flip-flops anxiously. You watch as Alistair dips his head; brunet bangs brush over his crown with the motion. The red splattered on his left cheek is given a light shine of silver, thanks to the moonlight that’s glaring in from the window adjacent to where the two of you currently are.

Finally, _finally_ , he raises his head. He’s staring at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. He’s still smiling. It twitches at the edges before it widens, betraying perfect teeth in a predatory grin; the pale glare of the moon gives them, his teeth, a lovely glint. His eyes are like a wolf’s, narrow and dark and _hungry_ , and you’re the perfect prey for him to pounce on and tear into, fangs and claws and maw dripping with saliva.

“A mistake on your part, truly. Shame on you, _ma lapine_.” He sounds almost incensed, though you detect no quiet nor visible sign of his rage. He doesn’t appear to even sound irate at your words. He doesn’t seem to be upset with you, either. Silently, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, it’s the sheer _audacity_ of your claim that he seems to be displeased with?

“Say it again.” His words leave him in a way that’s between a snarl and a breathy exhale. For the umpteenth time since he’s cornered you, pinned you against the counter top in the kitchen, a brief rush of heat kisses your blushing bride expression. “Tell me you love me again. If you dare, _mon amour_.” Again, a snarl and a breathy exhale possesses his words, rolling off of his tongue and leaving his lips, still curled up at the corner.

You open your mouth, struggling to form words, to form speech—but the vice of leathery pressure is closing in, slowly but surely. You know it is because the touch of the black fabric is ghosting over the flesh of your throat, making the hairs on your nape stand at attention, skin breaking out in a cold sweat.

“Whisper those asinine words of affection once more. _If you can_.”

You’re trying. By the grace of whatever deity or deities that may be listening and watching over you right now, you’re _trying_. Saliva trails down your chin, drool spilling past your open mouth; the rivers are warm, moist. It’s a perfect companion to your flushed visage and your perspiring skin, shining with the sweat of terror underneath the moon’s cold silver stare.

Hellfire is in your throat, leaving your airway deprived of oxygen; heaven is lapping at the shores of your womanhood; bliss, pure ecstasy, lies before you. Both literally and figuratively. Your husband’s hand is on your back—rather, buried up to his leather clad knuckles in your twitching, dripping walls—and you want to leap off of the cliff’s edge.

If it is of your own volition or whether Alistair pushes you over that ledge, that wonderful precipice of nirvana that only he can give you, it doesn’t matter to you; the end result will be the same. You blink and the tears filling your eyes trail down, down your coy visage that is painted with the colour of reservation, of shyness. Hot moisture pricks your vision and, again, you blink, allowing the fresh hit of waterworks to stain your cheeks, coursing hot and wet rivers down your face. Your perception is nothing more than a blurry mess of light and darkness, breathing a sob. The line between pain and pleasure, between lust and love is thin, so thin it can easily be cut with a knife.

“How are you feeling, _ma chérie_? Seeing stars? Lightheaded? Is your vision _swimming_ , perhaps?” The exhale that hits your face is nostalgic; the breath is warm, as you expect it to be; a hint of coffee makes itself known when you inhale. He is beautiful. He is danger that is wrapped up in a false sense of security, of serenity.

But most important of all is that he is your husband; the one who slipped a ring on your finger; the one who you exchanged vows with on your wedding day.

_“Forever, my dear.”_

He is the one who promised _“forever”_ with you: Alistair McCarthy.

You had promised _“forever”_ to him on your wedding day as well. Didn’t you? _Didn’t you?_

_Giggling, you placed a hand gingerly over your groom’s knuckles, eyeing him as you smiled. Always, always looked him in the eyes, silently apologizing for touching him, even if it was on a day as joyous as that day had been. “Yes, Alistair. Now and forever. That is my vow to you.”_

“You’re _mine_.” His voice is just barely above that of a hiss; it’s scarcely a whisper. But you have no trouble hearing it, if your laboured breathing is anything to go by. “Now, tomorrow, five years, ten years…You’re mine, _mine_ , **mine** until the day you die, and even when we face whatever awaits us in the end, _you’re all_ **mine**.”

Why is he doing this to you? What are you supposed to say? What does he want to hear from you? How are you going to appease the man before you? How will you soothe the demon standing in front of you? The man who you married; the one who you promised _“forever”_ with. An answer comes in the form of the sensation of cool leather touching the sweating, feverish skin of your throat; you hitch in a breath when this happens, irises dilating in surprise, in fear.

“Say it. Say that you belong to me. Say that you are _mine_!” He isn’t yelling at you; he doesn’t _need_ to raise his voice. His words are level, his tone is even, firm, but there’s an emotion you can’t quite place in his eyes. You wonder what it is… Is he disheartened? Is he stricken with some vicious malady that is making him act like this? Does he despise the state you’re in now, even if it is by his very hands that you are the way you are? The yearning for the flesh of a woman isn’t normally felt by him, you know that better than anyone, but you wouldn’t be surprised if he can already smell your terror, taste it on his tongue…

You know that you’re afraid. It shows in several ways: the sweat shining, breaking out over your terrified, blushing visage; the fear darkening your eyes, airily aglow with moonlight; the shivers possessing your body, making you quake from head to toe, gently; the slow, raspy breathing you’re taking in and expelling from your lips, caked in drool.

“Speak. _Speak_. Scream it, whisper it, I don’t care— _just tell me that you’re **mine**! Tell me that you exist only for me!_” There is no sure-fire harshness lacing his words, but he isn’t shouting either; he’s hissing the words he utters in your face. You are sure that the amount of oxygen—limited as it is—in your lungs is finally getting to you. That must be it. The moonlight is surely playing a trick on your eyes; such a crude deception! Because that surely isn’t a glimmer of _desperation_ you’re seeing in his eyes, is it? You aren’t seeing the tiniest hint, the smallest threads of pain stitching into his face, are you? _Are you?_

“Al—Alistair, I—”

The hand clad in black is now full-on touching your neck, and you can feel the way Alistair’s fingers flex, curling around your throat, squeezing oh so tenderly. This is it. You’re going to pass out. You’re going to die—or you think you are, at least. It won’t matter. Nothing will matter. Because Alistair has your life in the palms of his gloved hands, truly and utterly. Your short, meaningless little life is his for the taking. Honestly, some macabre part of you is fine with slipping into unconsciousness, into the welcoming embrace of death.

So long as your husband’s face is the last thing that you’ll see in this life… This life that you have, in some manner or another, happily shared with him. The memories of him will be carved into your memory, your own personal treasure to keep in the afterlife. They _will_. You’ll make sure they **will**. The least you can do is listen to your spouse. To play your part as a dutiful, good little wife in what may very well be your final moments alive.

“ **Say it**.” The thinnest trace of a snarl is in his voice, threading through the words that roll off of his tongue like a ripped hem as it is sewn. The feeling of leather is close, close, and closer and _closer_ and **closer—** and you wheeze out a gasp, choking out a noise that strangely sounds like his name. When did his movements speed up between your legs? When did his fingers become so wet and slippery? And oh fuck, you realize that it’s _your_ fluids that are staining his glove, running betwixt his leather clad fingers. When have you become _this_ wet? You want to be pushed over the edge of pleasure so, so badly. You want it. You need it. You crave it as much as a dehydrated person wishes for a glass of cool water.

It’s so close that you can almost _taste it_ on your tongue.

The scent of leather and blood and coffee are mixing together, shoving the unique aroma up your nose as you inhale shakily, eyes hot and watering with tears, and mouth wet and sticky with drool. Dread fills you like a corrosive liquid, burning away whatever shame and unnecessary feelings you might be harbouring. Alistair, face buried in the crook of your neck and shoulder, simply chuckles. The sound is as licentious as it is frightening. “Hush now, sugar,” he coos, talking to you as though he is soothing the worries of a child. “Who are you even going to scream out to for _help_? No one will hear you from this deep in the woods. Here, it’s just you and I.”

His breath is hot, light, tenderly brushing over the warm skin of your clavicle, caressing the shell of your ear as he raises his chin, brushing his lips in some faux display of _affection_ over the lobe; it’s caught, gently pulled at with his teeth for a moment before he relents. How you wish you can will back the shudder, the delighted shiver that worms up your spine, shoots up your back to possess your shoulders, but you _can’t_. Silently, you beg your brain to catch up, to wrestle itself free of the cage of terror it’s trapped in.

“What do you want from me—?” The pressure of leather remains, but strangely, it feels like it’s loosening; it’s soft, light, barely a whisper of a touch on your neck. Is this all a game to him? Is he merely playing a trick on your mind? Is he toying with your heart? But the tiny hairs on your nape are still standing tall, ripe with attention and worry, on full alert.

Deep down inside, a part of you is glad to be cautious, to be wary of him.

A hand clad in black leather slams against the cupboard your head is resting against. The rattle of frail plates and the clink of several glasses rings, the vibration rocketing all across your scalp, echoing in your ears like a chorus of demons cackling. Caught off-guard, you hitch in a breath, jumping in place as a squeak of surprise leaves your lips coated in saliva. However, the rough strokes between your legs slowing to a smooth pace pulls an immodest hiss from you; a satisfied chuckle leaves his lips.

“ _Everything_.”

Logically, the texture of Alistair’s leather glove should be scratching against your walls, irritating the wet warmth, but it only feels like heaven to you, like a glowing fragment of divinity you’re reaching for; soft yet coarse, smooth but wet, like a tongue. Nothing else can compare to this moment, the lurid play you’re starring in. Nothing else can ever hope to match the interwoven sensations, the feelings that he is pulling, _ripping_ out of you. The moment Alistair nimbly, effortlessly, presses a gloved thumb against your flowering bud, it’s the moment a sob is yanked out of your throat, turning your head to rest your sweating cheek—shaded with a hue of coyness—against the cool fabric covering your husband’s hand.

The tip of his nose brushes across the expanse of your skin, dancing a waltz of sorts over your shoulder, up your neck, and to your cheek, where he finishes with a ghost of a peck. “You’re _**mine**_ , _chérie_ ,” he whispers, the breath and associating laugh tickles your neck, your ear; you shiver, exhaling a ragged gasp. The words feel less like a declaration of ownership or a simple utter of a threat, but more of assertion of certainty, speaking of a cold and rational truth.

“Be my good girl; be my obedient wife; be my docile doe. Tell me who you belong to. **Swear it**.”

And just like that, the pressure has returned; the vice is slowly closing in; the ghostly caress of leather is now a full-on grasp, holding your throat in a manner that is as gentle as it is alarming. You know that he knows he can make it hurt, make _you_ hurt, if he so wishes to.

“I want to see you—the _real_ you. Not the impostor. Not the false front you put up. Not the façade you display in front of others,” Alistair says, speaking to you in that soft and cooing tone. Talking to you as though you are a simple-minded toddler. The hand curling, wrapping its coarse digits around the tender skin of your throat is still present, but the hand betwixt your legs, quickly and smoothly fingering your wet walls, disappears, slowly retracting his leather clad digits. The loss is enough to pull a whine from you, a fresh hit of shame taking root inside you; embarrassment colours your cheeks, tickling your skin with warmth. Alistair laughs in your face, blessing your sweating visage with a kiss of a breeze. “Without me… This is all that you are; this is all that you will ever be. A person. A body. I give your petty little existence meaning, love.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You swallow. You try to gulp, but it snags halfway down your esophagus, forming a lump. Your eyes sting with a fresh hit of waterworks; the wet heat is obvious. You don’t— _can’t_ —say anything. You can’t rebuke his words because you know, you know that he’s right. He knows what’s best; he knows what’s best for you. Doesn’t he? _Doesn’t he?_

You still haven’t responded to his earlier statement, but for now, Alistair isn’t giving you any indication that he minds nor cares that silence is your reply. Adding to that, as though piling wood to a roaring fire, the longing tingle of flirting with danger is beginning to course through your veins, rekindling the heat and the want, the need for him. For his touch, his leather fingers and gloved palm. For his lips, his tongue, his teeth. For his cooed words and sultry hisses. For his venomous words and his toxic love.

“Patience, darlin’.” Your husband’s voice yanks you free, wrenching you out of the trance you’re in. You blink slowly, almost stupidly, watching as the corner of his lips twitch, curling up to form a wider smile, if such a thing is even remotely possible. That is all you see, all you’re permitted to see as he dips his face, lowering his grinning visage to your neck. It feels like your spouse knows of the conflict that is raging inside you—that is, if the smile that is curling over the juncture between your throat and shoulder tells you anything. “I’ll love you; I’ll cherish you. That’s what you want, isn’t that right, _la faon_? For me to love you? For me to appreciate you?” he murmurs, and you feel your stomach dropping to your feet.

But it isn’t _fear_ that grips your throat, your brain, in a death grip. It isn’t terror that makes the rate of your heart pick up, racing, beating as fast as a songbird in flight. The way he speaks to you is very much like how a husband is supposed to address his wife, speaking to her in a voice that drips with affection, and though a part of you can’t help but to laugh at the thought, you’re still touched all the same. His voice is soft, bellying a kosher purr edging his words, threading through each syllable that rolls off of his tongue; the noise makes you melt and silently keen; it makes you weak in the knees, threatening to buckle.

He is saying what you want to hear for a change, and yet… You’re already in need of it. You want more of it. More of him. More of whatever he wishes to give you. You cannot shake the feeling of fire bursting to life, relighting the liquid heat pouring from your womanhood, still cupped in the palm of his gloved hand, literally. Your mouth feels dry, despite the rivers of drool it once leaked, but your body feels strangely heavy. Is this your doing? Is this part of Alistair’s plan? Did he abandon his harrowing approach, switching for tactics that are far more palliative, _knowing_ you’ll be an easy mark for soothing strokes and sweet nothings?

More importantly, does it even _matter_ in the end? Whatever he’s scheming, it’s working. It’s working because he knows it’s working. It’s working because you’re letting him affect you. Because he knows that you’re giving him power over you. Your husband is _dangerous_ ; you know it, and he revels in it. He is an enigma, a wild card. He is a mysterious and deadly force of destruction, wrapped in darkness and concealed in catacombs beneath the earth. Do you even _wish_ to invite the unknown further into your heart, into your body? Do you _want_ to try to understand him? Do you _desire_ him, despite knowing that he’ll merely manipulate you like a puppet?

The answer you receive comes in the form of a leathery palm, of gloved fingers cupping a flushed cheek instead of your throat. The gentle action surprises you, but that is nothing in comparison to the slow, smooth strokes of the hand inserted into your pussy. Even though his hand is concealed by the black leather glove, it somehow still feels warm, even though it’s covered. Your arousal spikes suddenly, its quickness is almost painful to your sensitive state, like a spark becoming a raging inferno in a matter of seconds.

Your body, your mind, your heart, your soul, they all jolt simultaneously, shuddering to life with a single word. That word leaves your mouth in the form of a noise, a noise between a mewl, a sob, and a plea all in one. “ _Yes_. I want that; I want _you_. More than anything. Please… Please, _please_ , **please** give it to me. I want it all! Whatever you give me, I’ll accept it! Just please—”

His mouth is quick to find yours, silencing your rant. Your eyes widen, dilating in surprise. You hadn’t expected that; how could you see _this_ coming? Your jaw drops, speechless, and the smooth wetness of Alistair’s tongue laps at your lower lip, the blunt edge of his teeth gently nipping on the plump flesh he’s just licked. “You’re so beautifully _human_.” The murmur against your wet mouth sounds almost like he loves you, like he cherishes you. _Almost_. It’s the closest he’ll come to regarding you highly. _So close and yet so far,_ you think, the bittersweet thought is quickly swept away by action. By movement between your thighs. By lips, teeth, and tongue attacking the sweet spot on your throat, a spot that he’s long since memorized.

The thin line between love and lust returns, the distinction between the two becoming more blurry, more distorted as the seconds tick by. A battle wages inside you, torn between loving your spouse’s lips on your skin and wishing for his hand clad in black to soothe the ache in your slit, to cool the fire licking at the walls of your womanhood. Lust wins, eclipsing the warped affection you have for this terrible, viperous man named Alistair McCarthy. A simple and tender brush of a gloved thumb, pressing against the leaking bud of your flower is breathtaking, truly. A gasp of _“oh!”_ leaves you, lips curved to shamelessly form an _o_. It is quickly followed up with a hiss of _“fuck me, Alistair,”_ earning a chuckle from the brunet.

Eyes twinkling nastily, grinning like the Devil himself, he leans away from your neck; you’re sure it’s dotted with love bites, like a cheetah proudly shows its spots off to the world. “Language, _ma biche_.” A flick of his warm and wet tongue soothes the most recent bruise, as though he is licking your sorrows and pain away. The fingers stuffing your insides suddenly dig in without warning, searching greedily, applying strokes that are as smooth as they are swift. “I _may_ ravish you. If you behave and mind your manners.”

That does it. The temptation. The alluring pull of words that are nothing more than a teasing “maybe” at best, and a lie at worst; it’s a halfhearted promise that he may not even fulfill in the end. He’s testing you, baiting you with hope, but for all you know he may very well toss it on the ground, crushing your hope with the heel of his shoe. And you’re falling for it hook, line, and sinker, but you don’t care. Not now.

How can you care when _white_ fills your vision? How can you give an honest thought when your orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave, heating your sweating, feverish body as your eyes roll back in your skull? How are you supposed to anguish over these god-be-damned feelings Alistair pulls, _rips_ out of you now, when your thighs, your entire body shakes like jelly? How will you worry over what’s right and what’s wrong, when your spouse’s leathery fingers are coaxing heaven out of you and having it leak into the palm of his hand, _literally_?

Wet warmth kisses the edge of your sight, whited out, and you feel the tears sliding down your cheeks as your toes curl deliciously, slowly, painfully. You aren’t— _can’t be_ —sure if you’re whining, whimpering, sobbing, writhing, clinging to Alistair, or doing all of that, but all you’re sure of is that your hands aren’t clutching the counter top’s edge, like they’ve been doing this entire time. No, your arms have looped around his shoulders, bringing him close, so close that you feel his breathing whispering over the hot, shivering flesh as he inhales and exhales, quickly, almost panting along with you. Your thighs, your moist heat clench around his hand, seizing around his fingers one last time in a vice of flesh and blood and bone.

His free hand grips your hip in a way that _smarts_ , leather fingers pressing harshly on the skin. You’re sure there will be a bruise there come tomorrow, if there isn’t one forming already. “ **Mine**.” He’s practically snarling the word as it’s uttered, rolling off of his tongue and leaving his lips. Breathless, struggling to gasp, you can only mindlessly chant a string of phrases. “Y-yours. I-I’m yours, Alistair. Yours, yours, yours, _yours_ , _yours_ , _yours_ , **yours** , **yours** , **yours**. Always.” Suddenly, it’s like that’s all you know how to speak, all you _can_ speak. Assuring him that you belong to him. That, and you whisper words of love to him, words which he does not— _cannot_ —return to you in a healthy, normal manner.

As your vision slowly returns to you, as you slowly float back down to Earth from your vision of nirvana, you see his lips tilting up, curling at the corner, baring his pearly whites to you.

Silence chokes the kitchen where you and Alistair stand, stillness that is broken only by the steady drip of the sink’s faucet.

This time, the loss of his hand does not reward him a whine from you; the only thing you can muster is a barely-there wince, a sigh of satiation tumbling from your mouth. You remain where you are: sitting on the counter top, arms wrapped around Alistair’s shoulders for leverage, palms and fingers clutching fistfuls of his shirt; the afterglow shakes possess your body, from your shoulders to the stubs of your toes; your lips tremble, no longer leaking drool; your eyes sting with the dry onslaught of the water they once released; you’re still trying to catch your breath, to calm the erratic pulse of your heart. 

A tingling feeling makes itself known on your neck. The sensation of warm leather is familiar, nostalgic to you, given what took place in the kitchen. Your slick coats his leathery fingers, sticks to his gloved palm, paints your inner thighs and drips onto the floor as his other hand slowly, carefully, traces the line of bruising that darkens your skin just above your windpipe. He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t ask you if you’re sore, if you’re hurting anywhere. Not that you expect him to. He wasn’t a particularly _normal_ lover before he slipped a ring on you, and he isn’t a run-of-the-mill spouse nowadays.

“Come closer, darling.” He raises a hand, crooking a finger for emphasis; quietly, you take note that it is, in fact, the one that was buried up to his leather clad knuckles in your heat moments ago. Your slick coats the smooth material, the white liquid sticks to the black glove, webbing between his fingers. You obey wordlessly, shifting your thighs as Alistair’s hand drops from your hip, looping an arm around your waist as you wiggle your butt experimentally. The moment the bare soles of your feet touch the tile floor, your balance is wobbly, shaky. Instinctively, your arms—still locked around his neck, hands still pressing to his shirt—tighten around him for leverage, and he tenses. He watches you and you watch him as slowly, carefully, your arms uncurl from around him, resting at your sides as you mutter an apology.

It is nothing short of a relief when he nods. He has yet to say anything, but that bob of his head tells you that he isn’t irritated with you. You listen, you watch, and you wait—you wait for a sign, you watch for a signal, anything at all from him. You’re playing the part of being his reverential, doe-eyed wife, but in truth, you’re no better than a house trained pet waiting for a treat, a kind word, or a pat on the head from your master. Maybe you’ll be given all three if you’re lucky.

“I suppose the bathrobe can stay. It’s so much like you. Veiled in false chastity… I know better. I know _you_ better than that. I love seeing you when that side of you comes out… That darker personality you try to keep hidden.” Suddenly, your perception shifts, dipping down and then up along with your body. Your feet are no longer touching the floor; your legs are dangling in the air; your eyes are staring at the floor of the kitchen. You’ve been thrown over his shoulder.

Baffled, you push up on his back with your hands, staring over your shoulder, hoping for an answer from him. “Alistair, what are you—?” “I’m feeling quite ravenous now. Shall I eat you up, _la faon_?” He begins to walk from the kitchen to the living room with you thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, like a freshly killed doe, and he looks back, throwing you a roguish wink. “A good hunter enjoys his catch of the eve, no?”

You swallow; the gulp sticks to your throat, slithering down to your stomach. There, it flip-flops in a ball of quiet anxiety, but it does nothing to stop the embers rekindling between your legs. In fact, his words, that devilish glint in Alistair’s eyes, and the promise they carry, it’s all fuel for the firestorm raging in your heart, in your core.

He is a monster through and through, but he is also your husband. You made a promise to love him, to honour him, to obey him.

Didn’t you? _Didn’t you?_

_“I will not let you forsake your vow, darlin’. “Forever”, eh? I’ll hold you to that.”_

**Author's Note:**

> _Flops down, exhaling in relief_
> 
> This is the longest _Sex Dice_ musing I have ever written. My dear friend, DragonsInkWell (Lafrenze), collaborated with me to cook up this spicy treat; I would not have had this ready, to serve so quickly, without her help. 
> 
> Real talk: Alastor, human or not, would _not_ be a healthy lover. To him, it’s all about having power over another. Even if that someone was his partner, and if that power was given to him by his partner, _willingly_? Food for his ego. I don’t approve of nor condone this type of relationship at all, but I felt it was good to try to see the relationship from both sides? From Reader’s perspective mostly, but also to get a glimpse into the deer man’s obscene mind.
> 
> Once again, a massive shout-out to my wonderful writer friend, DragonsInkWell (Lafrenze), for her assistance in this collaboration! Our sinful orchard has borne good, hearty fruit; may there be many more. So please go and check her out if you haven’t already!
> 
> For those who are curious: yes, there will be a spiritual sequel to this.
> 
> I wish you all a good day/afternoon/evening. Take care and be safe!


End file.
